Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(58)

“Come on.” His voice was gentle. “You can drop the artifice. There are no secrets between us.”

There bloody well are.

I waited for him to elaborate.

“I saw you,” he said. “In the library. I saw you light your cigarette.”

“I thought you’d forgiven me for smoking in the house.”

His smile faltered for the first time. “Agatha, come on. I thought we could really do this—that we could just have this conversation.”

I smiled exactly the way my mother does when she doesn’t want to hear something. It’s the look she gave me when I said I didn’t want to go to Watford, and when I asked for another horse.

“Agatha.”

“Braden…”

“I know you have the mutation.”

“The mutation?”

“It must be a mutation,” he said. “We’ve ruled out anything communicable.”

I genuinely didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“I know you can do magic!”

There’s a protocol for this. It starts with avoidance. Then comes denial. “I don’t think I follow—”

“We’ve got it on video, Agatha! I don’t know what spell you cast—you barely moved your lips. Is that something you’re taught?”

Next comes flight. I stood up, I headed for the door. “You’re being silly.” That’s also something my mother would say. “I really need to catch up with Ginger. Do you want to come with?” I reached for the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge.

Avoid, deny, flee, fight. “Braden, what’s the meaning of this?”

He stood up, too, cornering me against the door. “You don’t have to keep this secret from me. I know about you. I know about your kind.”

What options did I have left? I didn’t have my wand. I could have started a small fire in my palm, I suppose, but then he’d have the proof he wanted. And a Bic lighter wasn’t going to get me out of this. “This is completely unacceptable,” I said. “I am a guest in your home, and I demand to be treated as such.”

“You can talk to me, Agatha!” Somehow he was still smiling. “We’re both part of humanity’s next stage.”

“Humanity’s next stage? Braden, I’m a freshman at San Diego State. I’m probably not going to get into vet school. I’m—”

“Stop. Bullshitting. Me.” He very nearly raised his voice. “I thought we could do this together. I thought you’d want to do this together. You came here of your own volition—you want to level up. You want more from life.”

“No. I don’t. I was just being a good friend.”

“You’ve gotten to know us, you know we’re here to evolve. We’re moving mankind forward.”

“For fuck’s sake, Braden, you’re very rich and very good at Ashtanga—”

“We are the next stage of human life!” he snarled, baring his teeth at me. Baring his … fangs.

My breath caught.

“We are pushing past every single limitation, Agatha! We’ve already conquered sickness and decay, and next we’ll conquer the impossible!”

I walked past him, sitting primly on the bed.

He followed, standing over me, still ranting: “We know all about your people. We’re mapping your genome right now. In these labs. I’m building an entire facility for more research. We know about your wands and your spells—‘Sticks and stones,’ right? That’s one? And ‘Free at last’?”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“We’re going to know everything soon, and you could help us—you could make it so much more efficient. And it would benefit you, too. You’d be one of us. Strong. Well. Ageless.”

I stared at the wall. “If you’re quite finished—”

“Agatha.”

“If you’re quite finished, I think I’d like to—”

“It’s an invitation. But it isn’t a request.”

“Ginger will be looking for me.”

He touched my arm then. Probably with one of his infinitesimal needles. “I hope you consider it,” he said. By the end of his sentence, my head felt heavy.



* * *



But I’m awake now. My eyes are open.

I can’t open my mouth.

I can’t remember why not.

I think I’m waiting for Braden.





43





SIMON


Baz is standing in front of a full-length mirror, wearing—I swear to Merlin—a flowered suit. It’s some slick material, dark blue with blood-red roses. With a white shirt. No—a light pink shirt. When did he start wearing all these flowers? When did his hair get so long? He’s put stuff in it, and it’s hanging over his collar in thick, black waves.

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

He cocks an eyebrow at me in the mirror.

“It’s perfect,” Shepard says. “Vampires are always way over the top.”

Baz shifts his evil eye over to Shepard. “No, it’s perfect because it’s perfect.”

If Shepard could see Baz’s house, he’d know that it isn’t just vampires living the goth life; it’s also stupidly rich magicians.